(Once) Diamond Disadvantaged

The satirical ramblings of a woman, about relationships of all types. They call me Queen of Clarity.

I make this pledge.

Yes, it has been a long time. Yes, I am going to tell you why. Yes… I am a traitor to the unbetrothed kind.

You see on December 23, 2011 I entered a world I never dreamt I would become part of. A world of champagne, giddiness, well wishes and unrequested advice from annoying family members and ‘friends’ you didn’t know you had. I FINALLY became betrothed to Mr. DC, who shall hereby be referred to as the former Mr. DC.

Turns out all this time I had been emailing links and leaving magazine tear outs on the coffee table and on the back of the toilet door (I am also known as Queen of Subtlety), former Mr. DC had actually been making a mental note and paying a visit to one of the subtly mentioned jewellers. 

Now I know some of you are keen for details and others are looking for the unfollow button at this very minute and for the sake of former Mr. DC’s privacy I will tell you this and this only… Former Mr. DC must have been planning this one for a while and considering I posted embarrassing details about our relationship all over the world wide web, for all to see over the past 12 months, he must really love me to have delivered what I consider the most romantic proposal a girl could have wished for.

Now before some of you vomit or permanently delete me, due to concerns that I will become a boring, un-witty, obeying, apron wearing wife, I wish to make the following statement:

I, QOC promise to deliver to my readers, non mind numbing, unforgivingly honest and witty prose regardless of my current diamond advantaged state.

I swear to divulge all the dirty, dark details and highs and lows of planning a wedding, along with a continued dedication to taking the piss out of all relationships including my own.

I make a solemn pledge to, in the coming months, potentially become a Bridezilla for your reading pleasure and to never ever use the words ‘hubby to be’, ‘pumpkin pie’, ‘doting wife’, ‘the better half’ or my favourite ‘darl’.

I ask all my followers to please continue to have faith in me and my writing. I may wear a diamond, but I wear it on the outside. Once you become a D.D woman, it never fully leaves you and I promise she will come out to play in all future posts.

So ladies (and a few of former Mr. DC’s mates), it’s time to join me for the next chapter. I hope you enjoy the ride as much as I am going to…

x QOC 

I AM SPINSTER!

Ok, so it’s been a while…

I have my reasons for my lack of enthusiasm to muse with you all.
I turned 27 on July 30, Mr. DC did not propose on my birthday as I had anticipated and since then, I have been contemplating my social status as a late twenties DD woman.

You see, moving in to my late twenties as a DD woman has forced me to ask the question… When does bachelorette become spinster and what does that mean for me?

The Collins Dictionary defines the two as follows:

bachelorette [ˌbætʃələˈrɛt]
n
Jocular a young unmarried professional woman

spinster [ˈspɪnstə]
n
1. an unmarried woman regarded as being beyond the age of marriage
2. (Law) Law (in legal documents) a woman who has never married Compare feme sole

The definitions as stated above shed very little clarity on the situation for me, however a recent conversation with my brutally honest and unforgiving French Nanna, clearly defined for me that the sexy and endearing allure of bachelorette left my grasp on July 30, when I left twenty six and hurtled towards twenty seven. 

It went something like this…

Nanna (In your best French accent please) - So, you ave your birthday coming very soon no? 

Me (In my best, oh shit she is going to ask me about marriage tone) - Yes, I do. This year’s birthday seems to have come quickly.

Nanna - Yes. Dis is what appens when you become older. The birthdays come more quickly and you begin to wonder what you are doing wis yourself. 

Nanna (note the distinct lack of hesitation) - You must be sinking a lot about weser Mr. DC is going to propose or not no?

Me - Not really (bullshit), I am just looking forward to celebrating and going out for dinner.

Nanna - Ah yes, for sure. But you must be wanting it to appen dis birthday no? Otherwise it is getting to be too late for you soon no?

And there it was… ‘Too late for you.’

The moment when bachelorette became spinster had arrived, without warning and without recognition from a blissfully unaware me and made painfully clear by my seventy six year old grandmother. 

So, embracing my new label I must ask, where to now? 

As a bachelorette I would spend excessive amounts of money on things I didn’t need nor could afford, inclusive of OTT accessories for Minnie the Cavoodle, drink too much champagne, laugh off Mr. DC’s and the rest of the worlds hilarious jokes about that fact that he hadn’t proposed and kept a satirical journal, to show my lack of concern for the whole situation. 

However, it seems this kind of frivolous lifestyle just won’t do anymore. I must now accept change and adapt to my new title.

I have seen the movies and read the books and it would seem that as spinster I must be frugal and save all my five cent pieces for shopping day. I must trade in Minnie the Cavoodle for ten mangy cats, wear only black, swap champagne filled evenings and satirical prose for sitting in my rocking chair on my front porch, scaring all the neighbourhood children. Right?

WRONG!

Sister spinster listen up one time! (Sorry, probably shouldn’t be listening to Salt n Pepper while blogging). It’s time to reclaim the label! If I must be a spinster, I am going to do so in style. A chic spinster if you like.

No longer will we have unwashed hair, rocking chairs and litters of stray cats! We will embellish in ridiculous canine accessories, party until midnight (let’s not go overboard, I am twenty seven and must show some decorum) and wear the occasional floral print knee length dress and coloured cardie!

We will roam the streets in herds, spreading the word far and wide! 

Who’s with me? Shout it to the sky - I AM SPINSTER!

x QOC

Winning the toss.

As a DD woman, planning to attend someone else’s wedding is a vicarious thrill for me.

Everything is pre planned and organised to perfection - outfit, hair, make-up and romantic hotel in case Mr. DC gets ‘caught up in the moment’ and decides it’s our turn.

However, no moment is more meticulously planned than what Mr. DC likes to call my ‘pre-game strategy’. 
Why in hell would you need a ‘pre-game strategy’ for a wedding, you ask? 

I’ve got two words for you… Bouquet toss.

I’ve read so many feminist blogs and academic articles about how the bouquet toss is an undignified, paternalistic, sexist spectacle, proving nothing but the fact that society still deems unmarried or single women as desperate to marry beasts, willing to ‘specky’ a 10 year old to get the prize, (yes there is a story here which I will tell later). 

This makes me think, what is it that makes us yearn for an overpriced, overrated floral arrangement that we could just go and purchase for ourselves, dignity in tact? I mean the sheer concept that just because you catch it you are next to marry is a ridiculous tradition of which I am living proof does not eventuate (I’ve gone for the mark of around 24, caught one and been handed one). 

And what do you do with them once you have caught them? You stick them in a cupboard until they become sad little dried up ‘nana ornaments’ and constant reminders of a strange tradition and your less than admirable display of desperation in front of a room full of people.

I refer back to the feminists notion of what the bouquet toss represents and in doing so wish to contest their views on the whole thing and pose the thought, does the bouquet toss actually present in women what would traditionally be considered quite masculine and animalistic traits, reflective of those commonly displayed by men in sports?

Now those that know me, know I’m not the ‘sporty type’, but when it comes to the bouquet toss I see a lot of ‘sportsman’ like traits come out in me that I have otherwise successfully repressed in order to ‘be a lady’.

Wikipedia defines sport as an organised, competitive, entertaining, and skillful activity requiring commitment, strategy, and fair play, in which a winner can be defined by objective means. It is governed by a set of rules or customs. 

Take away ‘organised’ and ‘fair play’ and you’ve got the sport of bouquet tossing.

Remember girls the first rule of bouquet tossing is that there are no rules.

This is particularly evident if you search “bouquet toss” on Google. There you will find endless highly entertaining, however distressing videos of women in intense, rugby-like scrums, all vying for that all-important accolade. 

Truth is, no matter how embarrassed I sometimes feel watching these videos, I also find myself replaying them in slow motion, watching the girl who catches the bunch, making notes about her tactics and critiquing where the losers went wrong.

I am very well trained in the sport of the bouquet toss, but even a pro like me has been off my game a few times, resulting in some rather humiliating moments that I hope I never come across in my Google/YouTube searches.

There was the time I ‘specky’d’ and subsequently tackled a 10-year old girl for the bouquet, much to the crowds disgust, only to miss the catch, be hit in the forehead and watch them fall into the arms of the somewhat crumpled little girl lying on the floor. 

I’m not proud of this moment and those of you feeling sorry for the little girl - don’t, to add insult to injury (literally as I suffered a mild concussion) she is now 20-years old and recently engaged.

Then there was the time my girlfriends were in on my ‘game-plan’ and thought they would be good team mates and inform every other potential catcher that I really ‘needed’ this win, which resulted in me running like a mad woman for the bouquet at toss time, only to see that none of the others had even bothered to try.

Or the time at my best friend’s wedding, when she turned around and basically hand balled the bouquet directly to me and whilst I shamelessly celebrated in my win I could hear guests commenting, ‘poor girl needs it, to keep her optimistic about her situation.’

But you know what, bruises (to both my body and my ego), leers from guests whose children I have pummeled and bra burning Germaine Greer’s aside, if I really look at it, the bouquet toss is just a bit of light hearted fun for all the DD girls of the world. 

We know it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t guarantee me that Mr. DC will feel suddenly compelled to produce a diamond and I know I certainly shouldn’t spend too much time over analysing how to catch it and just enjoy my friends special day.

Just remember if you are going to enter the arena when I do… You better bring it.

x QOC

Make way for the pity party.


As a DD woman, you might begin to notice your friends develop this bizarre mannerism when they are about to inform you that someone they know (who you may or may not know) has recently become engaged.

Mr. DC and I recently held a dinner party at our house with all our coupled friends, all of which also happen to be married.


Over nibbles the discussion turned to my job and the need for organisations to become more ‘engaged’ with their communities and how I had sent a ‘proposal’ to a local business to encourage them to support the NFP I work for.

I trail off my sentence when I notice all my girlfriends have developed this look of concern and that they are flinching when I speak.

Puzzled I turn to ‘smug wife one’ and ask if she is feeling OK.

“Yes, she says.

“We just noticed how you managed to fit the word ‘engaged’ and ‘proposal’ into your sentence subconsciously… You poor thing,” she says with this strange sad pout like I am the puppy she sees after she purchases another puppy from the pound and simply can’t take another home.

I quickly begin clearing the plates, cheese knife first as it is sharp and my current mood homicidal and make my way to the kitchen to put my head in the oven… I mean plate up mains.

As we begin our mains, I notice two of my girlfriends exchanging strange coy looks and smirks and their husbands start shifting in their seats.

“So, did you guys hear the news?” says ‘smug husband one’.

“No, what news?” says Mr. DC.

All of a sudden the air over there becomes tense and the whole table, excluding Mr. DC and I begin to grimace.

I sniff the food; reluctant to put it in my mouth, through fear the intensely painful looking grimace they are all displaying may have been caused by what I have served.

“Barney and Betty are engaged,” reluctantly states ‘smug husband two’.

Queue awkward silence and loud crickets.

“Who are they?” I say, with a look that surely displays my lack of certainty about how this story is relevant to us.

The look of constipation begins to leave each of their faces.

“You don’t know them, but I just had to let you know, there goes another one, and you guys still aren’t engaged,” says ‘smug husband one.’

I glance at my girlfriends and begin to count on my fingers how many glasses of wine I’ve had, as that’s got to be the only explanation for this strange and demented conversation.

Nope just as I thought, I am drinking water and my original thoughts are confirmed. Now back to the kitchen to place head in oven.

The whole table then erupts into laughter and Mr. DC is left very confused and very hungry, as he is still not sure whether or not the grimacing was food related and I am left thinking I should have ensured I’d kept that cheese knife at the table.

Now if this was a one off occasion, we may be able to see the funny side, however, this behavior now regularly invades any dinner, brunch, lunch or casual drinks gathering we have, leaving Mr. DC a little puzzled and me a little pissed.

Smug friend newsflash 1: The words ‘engaged’ and ‘proposal’ have multiple meanings of which some are not only reserved to be used by married people.

Smug friend newsflash 2: The grimacing faces you all displayed after eating my cooking caused me more concern than the impending nuptials of complete bloody strangers!

So to those ‘smug friends’ who wish to continue to come to dinner at my house, the invitation says ‘dinner party’ not ‘pity party’.

x QOC

Blame the baby.

OK, so you haven’t heard from me for a week. 

The reason, Christmas, the thought pattern, Mr. DC was going to propose at Christmas, the result; he didn’t, so here comes another installment. 

I’ve not only been motivated to write another blog because my Christmas present resulted in a salad spinner and a Tiffany’s box that I opened knowing was not THE Tiffany’s product because of the disclaimer Mr. DC gave as he watched me open it, but because today I received a message from a very dear friend letting me know she is expecting her first baby. 

Wonderful news no doubt, however, with news like this, comes the paranoid over thinking that the ‘baby wave’ has begun and that this means the ‘engagement era’ is over before I have even had a glimpse of a diamond. 

I am honestly thrilled for my beautiful friend and in true friend style I text her back an excited congratulatory message and in true QOC style I followed it up with a comment that I intentionally knew would start WWIII with Mr. DC. 

This tends to happen quite a lot. 

I liken us to North Korea (me) and South Korea (Mr. DC). Things are cruising along relatively diplomatically to the unknowing outside world, but the underlying tension is always there, simmering away and then something or someone will throw a missile right in the middle and all of a sudden we’ve descended into an all out war. 

There are a number of things that can cause this kind of chaotic disturbance, text messages about pregnancies, engagements or wedding invites, or the occasional television or movie proposal and all of a sudden I morph into Kim Jong-Il, nuclear weapons armed and pointing in Mr. DC’s direction. 

I then triumphantly put on a united-front and threaten to become a ‘single-party state’ and claim ‘sovereignty’ over Minnie the Cavoodle if he doesn’t consider marriage soon. 

Usually this ends with an agreement the likes of the Korean Armistice agreement (we discontinue the fighting temporarily, but we are officially still at war), as neither party is willing to sign a peace treaty.

Today was different though, as Mr. DC had a counterattack and informed me that my unprovoked attacks have forced him to consult his allies and spend the rest of today playing PlayStation and drinking beers, leaving me to have to consider retreating.

But retreat is not an option; the best I can offer is a treaty, mainly for the sake of the innocent civilians (Minnie the Cavoodle).

And so the quiet peace we have known for some weeks now has once again been abruptly nuked by WOMD (words of mass destruction) and both sides will need to make promises to seek out a peaceful reunification once again.

And it all started with a baby…

x QOC 

We’re engaged… Permanently.

No not us…

I’m talking about the people I refer to as the ‘smug one’s’… Those friends that get engaged and stay that way for YEARS!

You know, the friends that are happy to remain a ‘fiance’ (say it with a plum in your mouth), because they like that it sounds posh and French. The friends that have the diamond and the promise.

The friends that after 2-4 years of engaged glory don’t need the big hoo-haa, they don’t need to prove something to everyone else, they don’t need to show their devotion to others, they are happy as they are.

Yep… Those ‘friends’.

How silly of me, to think a wedding would directly follow an engagement, what kind of a ridiculous idea would that be?

A little tip for the ‘smug one’s,’ move on, get married and stop reliving the engagement over and over, so that Mr. DC cannot use the fact that you haven’t married yet as an excuse not to propose.

‘We can’t get engaged, *smug one one and *smug one two haven’t married yet and because we don’t know when they will marry, we can’t steal their limelight,’ says Mr. DC.

To which I reply, ‘Oh OK, fair enough, maybe 2-4 years planning, saving and preparing isn’t enough time for them.

‘Maybe they should consider the fact that whilst they take their time, I am considering how I would look walking up the isle with a frame, whether or not I should be booking the local RSL for the pensioners discounted roast lunch as a wedding dinner and if we would manage dancing the funky chicken as our bridal waltz, without doing a hip.’

Well to all those friends, here is something to think about whilst you ponder whether to bother with a wedding at any stage. When Mr. DC and I finally marry, if old age hasn’t already taken its course and made the decision for us, we might need to be ruthless and cull the guest list.

Point taken?

x QOC

*Names have been changed to protect me from further smug comments from the smug one’s.

Everything but the proposal…

My married girlfriends were all playing the ‘I’m so glad that’s behind me’ card the other day over dinner, referring to the fact they were so over organising their weddings and are now so glad they can basque in married glory, that they wish to destroy any glimmer of hope left in those less fortunate.

For a change* (sarcasm intended) I became the focal point of discussion and laughter as my big day is already pretty much sorted… What’s so funny about that? If more women had of done the same, us poor ‘Diamond Disadvantaged’ girls would never have to hear the ‘I’m so glad it’s over’ sentence from married women again!

It got me thinking though, why is it so important to us, if when we finally get what we want, we complain about planning and holding it? Comments welcomed.

I myself cannot imagine ever feeling this way… Maybe because it’s all documented in hidden files on Mac and in my filing cabinet… I don’t know?

But a word of advice to all married friends. We love you very much, but don’t pull the ‘I was so over it’ line on the ‘Diamond Disadvantaged’, we still need hope and you’re withering any ounce of it away every time you utter the words.

Give hope people.

x QOC

Waity Yatesy…

And so the title is open again.

Kate Middleton move over,  me along with a thousand others who can rhyme their names with ‘waity’ would like their ‘moment before the moment’. Waity Katie is no more, there is hope girls.

So that makes two unlikely engagements this week.

Jessica Simpson also received closure this week and is now engaged to Eric Johnson after SIX MONTHS!

Word on the street is that she bought the ring herself, now there’s a girl that knows what she wants.

Hmm, tempting…

x QOC

Not so ‘happy days’ with the Naked Chef.

Mr. DC and I spent 2 years travelling through Europe and you can imagine that during this time, we spent many wonderful, romantic nights in gorgeous places, eating out at incredible restaurants.

Like any other DD woman, I would meticulously plan every evening outfit prior to dinner, make sure friends and family knew we were ‘dining out’ and practice my reaction when Mr. DC got onto one knee!

The outfit had to be perfect, to ensure photos of the moment were keepers. The reaction had to be thrilled, but not overly desperate.

Everything was just so, every single time we went to dinner, the only problem… Mr. DC never got onto one knee…

It took about 25 dinners, before Mr. DC got wind of what was going on every time I spent 1 hour locked in our bedroom, madly flicking through items of clothing.

I remember it clearly… We were off to Jamie Oliver’s Fifteen in London. I had been extra vigilant with my preparations, as Mr. DC and I were both big fans of Mr Oliver and I was sure that if it was going to happen any night, this would be it.

The outfit was flawless, the lines rehearsed and friends and family were all well prepped after a most subtle Facebook post.

We started with a cocktail, perfect, he is warming up, a little ‘dutch courage’ for the big moment.

Phone has reception, brilliant, phone calls can be made immediately after the first engaged kiss.

The waiter comes over, with a cheeky little grin… Oh Mr. DC I am onto you now.

As we are seated, I give the waiter a little smile that says, don’t you go too far away as there is going to be a need for expensive champagne any moment now…

Mr. DC looks at me with that winning smile and takes a deep breath.

‘It’s nice here, I am so glad I could get the booking.’

This was it, a quick check of the ground to ensure there are no foreign objects that could dirty or tear his new trousers when on one knee, which would ruin post engagement photos as they would need to be head shots and then outfit preparations are a wasted effort.

I do, I do, the words repeated over and over in my head.

Mr. DC sighs, ‘Now you know I’m not going to propose tonight, right?’

I do, I do, I what?!

‘Of course I knew’, I say trying to choke back tears or refrain from choking him.

‘I don’t think you’re going to propose every time we go out for dinner you know,’ I say convincingly.

And so swiftly ends the discussion and the dream.

Unfortunately, this line also became Mr. DC’s tag line at the beginning of all our dinners from then on, making for a less than pleasant evening on many occasions.

Happy days.

x QOC

The perfect moment.

As a DD woman, you have to laugh when people try to make you feel better about the “diamond-less situation” you currently find yourself in.

I love watching their bemused faces as they try to come up with a perfectly acceptable reason why your man of 10 and a half years hasn’t proposed.

“I think he has a plan, he knows what he wants to do, give him TIME (that’s a great one, how much more time would you suggest oh wise one).”

Oh and my favourite, “maybe he’s just waiting for the perfect moment.”

You know, maybe you’re right, I say to them with an assassins smile and a false enthusiasm that would make a corny American teen movie producer swoon.

Maybe a romantic cruise on The Seine in Paris, horse drawn carriage ride through Central Park in New York while it snowed or uninterrupted stroll along Wine Glass Bay in Tasmania, couldn’t have possibly delivered the perfect proposal moments…Thanks for your words of wisdom, genius.

Question is, what constitutes the perfect moment?

Personally, after reading endless accounts of romantic proposals in beautiful destinations, I am confident to say, for Mr. DC and I the “perfect proposal moment” has passed.

The two year overseas adventure, experiencing constant spontaneity across Europe and the UK has most certainly come to an end and the glimmering hope of a romantic getaway any time soon has fizzled due to a serious dose of reality after three mortgages, three career changes (each) and a dog.

Yep, the textbook perfect proposal moment has passed, unless of course you count me hanging the washing, cooking dinner, feeding the dog or our weekly Thursday evening outings to our local pizza joint the perfect moment.

As any of the latter sound more appealing than remaining a DD woman forever, bring on the cheap pizza, sweaty waiter and BYO wine baby!

x QOC